Ghosts
by Shrink To Be
Summary: Howard is worried about Vince’s strange behaviour. While Naboo and Bollo appear to turn a blind eye, Howard is determined to find out just what has made Vince lose his spark…
1. O level Mathematics

**Author Notes:** This is my epic fic. I have two sequels planned. I have done hours of research (which my friends can vouch for) and really it's just an opportunity for me to swat up on some medical stuff :) Of course I'm no expert, so if anyone can offer any more information on the subjects (or point out errors) then I would love to hear from you! Many thanks to my beta sisidraig, my grammar-freak friend hermitknut and moral support knightaimee. Enjoy!

Chapter 1

O**-**level Mathematics

Howard could not help but be reminded of his O-level mathematics lessons. Those had been hard times. Trying to fully comprehend simultaneous equations, graphs with direct proportions, probability, angles in triangles, angles in circles, calculus… such things had held little importance in his young mind. The numbers were so definite. So absolute. So rigid.

You can't change a number. You can't change what it means.

With his mind drifting lethargically through these old thoughts, Howard looked over to where a very still Vince lay across the sofa. His best friend's body had twisted itself into a pose that didn't seem ultimately comfortable; but it seemed to suit Vince just fine in his unnervingly static and sleepy state. From the waist up, he was sprawled: left arm hanging over the edge of arm of the sofa on which his torso leant, right palm supporting the back of his arched neck. His head lolled backwards, chin pointing heavenwards. His legs told another tale, each one folded almost frighteningly neatly together, tangled up in an ancient knitted blue blanket that had belonged to the youthful Vince from a time before all this when maths O-levels reigned; when the equally youthful Howard had watched his self-confidence wither as Vince's perpetually grew.

In the present, Howard's life-long friend appeared to not even acknowledge him. It was well into the evening on a Friday and the other man had failed to even log onto MyFace. Instead he had watched at least three hours of Big Brother seventeen, and picked half-heartedly at a bag of gummy worms resting on the coffee table. For Howard, the measure of someone who had hit rock bottom was Big Brother live. He could not understand why someone would want to sit on a sofa, eating rubbish, watching other people sit on a sofa. It made no sense. This wasn't what Vince, _his _Vince, was meant to spend his evenings doing.

For one thing, gummy worms weren't his favourite sweet...

Worried, Howard leant backwards, resting his body against the wall. This was just so unlike him. Placid and barely awake, completely pliable in the hands of sleep; it just wasn't Vince. He watched as a gummy worm slipped through Vince's sugary fingers and onto the carpet. And watched it stay there. There was no scrambling about on Vince's part, no frantic searching for the lost worm, no annoyed grunts at having been so clumsy… Vince's hand stayed hovering at his side, sticky fingers loosely curled around nothingness, worm forgotten, world forgotten.

Howard sighed. Daydreaming was ineffectual. He dragged a hand over his face, feeling each contour ripped into his skin by his incessant concern. He was feeling old. Was Vince just ignoring him? Had he gotten so accustomed to this generic, moustached face that he now blended into the furniture - the Howard-shaped floor lamp?

No, "Howard Moon: Floor Lamp" didn't have the chivalrous ring to it he'd so often struggled to replicate for his man-of-action, Hawaiian-shorts-clad "look". He knew Vince wouldn't – _couldn't_- ignore him, not really. Perhaps Vince was bothered about something.

Howard's mind began to whirr at a nauseatingly fast pace. He pondered over his pondering of the previous minute and a half, and Vince's strange behaviour.

Why was everything so dependent on chance? One day, Vince would be one man, the next, another, changing as often as British weather, as effortlessly and as unpredictably as the throw of a dice. _When did it get like this?_ was Howard's first thought, quickly followed by _what have I done wrong?_ with _what can I do right?_ treading unceremoniously on its heels.

But deep down, the dusty old floor lamp still recognised his purpose. He shuffled a bit; coughed.

"Cup of tea?" he offered, breaking the almost-silence which had previously consisted only of the television's muffled, whiney voices. Vince jerked as if startled, and looked mildly surprised at the other man's presence.

"Nah," he said, his voice croaking from disuse. He coughed to clear it. "No thanks." He closed his eyes as if to feign the appearance of succumbing to sleep.

His first attempt at provoking a conversation having failed, Howard tried a different tact, a "Plan B" opening line, to move Vince from his stupor.

"How are you?"

"What?"

"I said 'How are you?'"

There was a pause.

"Tired as fuck."

"Is that why you're not out tonight?"

"Yeah."

"But you always go out."

"Not tonight."

"But why not?"

"I just said – I'm tired!"

"From what? You've not done anything today. Just watched Hollyoaks reruns and Big Brother seventeen!" Howard pointed out.

"You don't appreciate how draining all that drama is, Howard. Chad's just run off with Josie in Hollyoaks – imagine that!" Vince's voice seemed to lack its usual enthusiasm.

"Well**,** you don't appreciate how draining a day of honest paid work is, Vince."

"Naboo let me off," answered the younger man.

"Oh did he now? And he didn't tell me about this. Why not?"

"How should I know? I can't read his mystical shaman mind**,** can I? You seem to think the world revolves around you."

"That's rich coming from you." Howard glowered at his friend with his small eyes.

"Leave me alone, Howard."

And with that, Vince delicately removed himself from his position on the sofa and went to his room.

It soon became apparent to Howard that the more concerned he was over Vince's well being, the more he seemed to come across as a nagging parent. Howard could not help but be reminded of his O**-**level mathematics lessons; graphs displaying values of y directly proportional to x.

Though not exactly a smooth talker, Howard liked to think he knew how to get across a basic point. Unfortunately, his recent failure forced him to accept that he couldn't achieve even that.

Instead of helping Vince and learning what was wrong, he had managed to drive him away even more, making the whole situation worse. If Vince wasn't talking to his electro/rocker/Camden dollybird/other friends then who was he talking to? Surely someone knew what was wrong. Vince was never one to keep a secret for longer than it took to press the speed dial for Leroy. Why would this be any different?

Howard stepped across the room to the phone. He grabbed it and drew it quickly to his ear. He started to dial Leroy's number. It was easy to remember, the easy symmetry with sixes, threes, eights. Howard could not help but be reminded of his O**-**level mathematics lessons. Pascal's triangle, square numbers, prime numbers…

Leroy was little help. Apart from the fact that it was still late into an ordinary Friday evening, and the voice on the other end of the phone was slurring the vast majority of its words, Leroy was only capable of asking when Vince was going to be out again. He had no understanding of the words 'I don't know, do you?'. After what seemed to be one of the most circular conversations he'd ever had, including when Vince told him that 'dressing as circles with short term memory loss is all the rage' (and they both became hopelessly confused), Howard had hung up the phone, miserable at the lack of progress that he had made.

It was like staring at an epic algebraic equation. The solution, or at least a clue to the answer, lay embedded in all the information. The problem was trying to identify it. You could stare at the equation for hours and not make any progress. The key was in the detail. There was no use in reading the equation aloud to yourself if you didn't knew what any of the symbols meant. On the other hand, if you know what you are dealing with, then chances are sooner or later you will be able to make a connection in your mind and see something that you'd not noticed before.

Wait.

_The key is in the detail._

Vince had said Naboo had given him the day off. Did Naboo know something that Howard didn't?

It didn't take him long to track down the tiny blue-turbaned shaman. He approached the enigmatic man, in a way he hoped meant business, but tried not to corner him. _Act casual, Moon._

"Hey Naboo, how're you doing?"

"What do you want?"

"Can't I say hello to a friend?"

There was an awkward pause. Howard begins to suspect he shouldn't have described Naboo as something more than a distant acquaintance.

"This is awkward," Naboo lisps.

"Yeah. Look, why did you give Vince the day off today?"

"He was tired."

"Yeah, he told me that."

"Then why ask me?"

"Because I don't believe him."

"Look, it was a business decision. It doesn't concern you," Naboo said, trying to dismiss him.

"I think you'll find it does. I was down running that shop all day, sir! It's not easy, you know."

"You managed though, right?"

"I hardly got any stock-taking done today."

"That's a shame," Naboo retorted, uninterested.

"That it is, sir."

"We never stock**-**take, Howard," Naboo pointed out.

"Well… I didn't sell anything either."

"You haven't sold anything in twenty-seven months."

Howard fumed. "Vince should have been at work today and I've yet to hear a good reason to explain his absence!"

At that moment, Bollo decided to appear. "Harry being mean to precious Vince?" Howard suppressed a groan.

"He's asking why Vince wasn't working today," Naboo said to his familiar.

"Vince tired," Bollo grunted.

"Yes, I know that, thank you." Howard rolled his eyes, frustrated with the running circular theme that the day's conversations seemed to have.

"Problem solved," Bollo said.

"No. No, problem not solved." Howard paused to re-adjust his speech. "You're hiding something. What? Why?"

"It's nothing, Howard." The shaman tried to look Howard in the eye, though this was harder than it seemed with eyes as small as Howard's.

"Vince always takes time off. Why would today be any different?"

"You tell me."

"Oh, Howard, just drop it. Have you heard yourself? You're like a broken record!"

"_I'm_ a broken record? Have you heard yourselves? You all keep telling me it's 'nothing'. There's _something_ you're not telling me." A maniacal gleam crept into Howard's tiny eyes. "I'm on to you. I'm on to all of you. I'll find out what you're doing. Just you wait. Yes sir, just you wait…"

"Harry gone mad," Bollo huffed to Naboo.

"You might want to be careful about spouting that stuff out, Howard. Some people might think you've gone wrong," the shaman said. "Wrong-er." he corrected. But Howard had already stormed out of the room, shouting "And my name's Howard!" as he went.


	2. A One Off Crazy

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the Mighty Boosh, but I do own my hair. I also do not own Howard's jazz ramble in the fic (enter **hermitknut**).

**Author Notes:** Many thanks to my betas sisidraig and hermitknut. Also, thanks to the wonderful knightaimee! (These are they're live journal accounts :) )

Prepare yourself for more drama this chapter. I'm currently writing chapter 7 so you can rest assured that the story doesn't stop here…

* * *

Chapter 2

A One**-**Off Crazy.

The next morning Howard went down to the shop, bleary**-**eyed but ready for a full day of marketing ahead of him, just like any other normal Saturday morning. When he arrived he noticed that Vince was already sat in the red dentist's chair, apparently ready for the day's work to commence. Howard looked at the strangely shaped clock on the wall; it was five to nine.  
Blinking slowly, his eyes moved back to the chair. Vince was indeed sat in it (s_o not a figment, after all…_), peering up at him through a curtain of perfectly arranged hair. He was sucking on a lollipop and grinning at his friend.  
"Alright, Howard?"  
Howard practically did a double-take. Vince sitting in the shop this early on a Saturday, as a single event, was shocking enough. Adding onto that his apparent ability to speak like a normal person, with no hint of the usual sleepiness that the young man would ordinarily harbour at this time in the morning, almost gave Howard a complex.  
"You're," Howard began, voice sandpapery, "you're up then?" He cleared his throat, inwardly wincing at this pointlessly asked question.

"Yeah," Vince chuckled lightly, perhaps, Howard thought, in a nervous fashion.

"Good. That's… good," the taller man stuttered, lost for words.

Vince smirked in amusement at Howard's awkwardness.

"I need to check on… the, um… toaster."

"You do that," the younger man said laconically, still grinning around his lollipop. Howard dashed out of the room.

In his makeshift refuge that was the kitchen, Howard leant heavily on his palms as they lay flat upon the tabletop, and proceeded to have a stare-off with the toaster. Its chrome exterior threw his face back into his eyes. Staring at himself, Howard contemplated the idea of destruction, and what lie he could tell Vince about the state of the toaster.

* * *

There was only ten minutes to go before Howard could venture upstairs to make lunch for himself and co-worker. The maverick tapped his foot to an imaginary, ever changing rhythm as he flicked through his vast vinyl collection. "Nothing like a properly organised Jazz collection," Howard sighed, smugly, to himself. He didn't notice peculiar look that Vince was giving him from across the room.

"I think that's a bit of a waste of time, Howard," the small man drawled from across the room.

"How dare you - good organisation is key to successful retail!"

"Yeah, well, maybe." The other man looked slightly lost after trying to keep up defining the long words at the fast rate, "But, seriously - jazz?"

"Jazz is very serious, Vince." Howard droned. Vince mentally prepared himself for the interminable speech that he was about to be subjected to. "It's a highly complex and majestic art form, based on a confluence of African and European music traditions and developing hand-in-hand with early American pop music. Why, if you'd been born in the early 20th century, _you_ would be a jazz fan! It was the contemporary version of the synthetic, melody-less music you worship today! Duke Ellington was the David Bowie of the 1920's!" Howard's brow was sweating and his eyes were bright with passion. "And the variety is astounding! Although the only true form of jazz is its earliest, purist form, all jazz has touches of that original perfection! Asian-American jazz, avant-garde jazz, bebop, big band, chamber jazz, continental jazz, cool jazz, free jazz, gypsy jazz, Latin jazz, mainstream jazz, mini-jazz, modal jazz, m-base, neo-bop, orchestral jazz, post-bop, stride, swing, third stream, traditional jazz, vocal jazz…and then the fusion genres! Not pure jazz by any means, but still with that glory, that power, that incredible musical connection to the soul that is jazz!"

He was met only with an expression of thorough confusion. Howard sighed.

"Yes, jazz."

"You're wasting your time, Howard," Vince whined. "No-one's ever going to buy them."

At this point a man wearing a paranoid-chocolate tweed suit, with angry-muffin elbow patches, walked into the shop, his presence announced by the old bell hanging over the inside of the door frame. He stood there, for a second, looking domineering and important in the doorway. His breathing was heavy and louder than all small noises in the shop, including the squeaking that was coming from the seat Vince was in. The man's heavy brow held under it a pair of eyes that squinted and peered around the room as if hunting for the person who was most likely best suited for his request. Finally, his vision set upon Howard's sturdy form. A smile fell upon the man's lips and the atmosphere instantly lightened.

"Hello, good sir, I was wondering if you have any rare jazz vinyls? I would be interested in purchasing them - but only if they are well organised."

Howard beamed with delight at the customer. "Step right this way, sir. I have many rare jazz pieces that a man of your high standards will no doubt appreciate." He quickly ushered the tall, heavy-browed man to the shelves which held his precious collection. From past experience he knew that unless he got the customer hooked fast then Vince would steal and brainwash them with sequins and glitter. Even the straightest of men who ventured into this shop could leave dreaming of ladyboys, flirtinis and Topshop. As a result of Vince's apparent natural hypnotising abilities, Howard had become forced to accept that he might never again make a sale. Naboo was even threatening to make a dungeon to move Howard's section of the shop to, and then advertise it on the black market like some kind of filthy porn venue. The paranoid part of him decided that they wanted to lock him underground, and allow Vince to turn the shop into a sweet store. The idea horrified him, so he decided not to ponder on it for too long.

The tall dark stranger was still browsing through his immense jazz collection, unbothered by Vince's undoubtedly disorientating presence. In fact, it was rather peculiar that this customer was immune to the Vince Noir charm. It was either that or Vince's charisma was simply lacking today. Howard dismissed that last thought as soon as it made itself known in his head. The Prince of Camden losing his capability to distract Howard's customers? It was unheard of.

Howard looked over to Vince, hoping to find the reason that he had decided not to intervene on what was possibly his first sale in twenty-seven months, and found that perhaps he shouldn't have dismissed his ponderings so readily.

Vince was trembling, tears streaking down his face. It was lucky that he was sitting far back in his seat, because it did not look like his shaky legs would have been able to support his weight. The seat was creaking from the jerky movements of the small man's body, though there was no other sound. Howard was just about to unfreeze his own northern pins to move towards Vince, when the latter seemed to snap back to reality, eyes darting madly around the shop, tears still leaking from the corner of his eyes.

Before any conversation could be made, Vince dashed upstairs as quickly as his wobbly legs could carry him.

Howard was left alone with the tall man that breathed too loudly.

Howard soon found Vince with his face buried in his soft, burgundy bath towel, after seemingly splashing his face with cool water. His fingers still shook slightly as he pulled the towel away and saw that Howard was watching him from the hall.

"Hey, Howard."

"Hey." He felt so stupid when the silence extended for longer than was comfortable. Thankfully, Vince spoke again.

"I'm sorry about that. Don't know what came over me," he said in a strange tone; honesty.

"Did you know that man?" Howard asked, thinking he had hit a nail on its head.

"What man?"

"The one downstairs."

"The customer?" Howard nodded. Vince shook his head.

"Never seen him before in my life," Vince assured him.

"Then why did you freak out?"

"I dunno!"

"You don't know him from any of your mates then?"

"He was asking for jazz, Howard. Do you really think any of _my_ mates like jazz?" Howard felt a knife rip through his gut. For once Vince seemed to realise his error. "Well, you know what I mean, none of my mates at the clubs. It's just you innit? And you didn't seem to know that guy…"

"I thought that he was scaring you."

"Scaring me?!" Vince scoffed.

"Well you started crying."

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry alright, now can you just drop it?"

"Why won't you tell me what's wrong?"

"Well there ain't nothing wrong, is there?" Vince countered. Luckily, Howard had had a great deal of experience when it came to ignoring double negatives.

"You went wrong!"

"It's in the past alright? A one-off crazy. _You_ have 'em all the time and you don't see me banging on about it. Give it a rest, okay?"

"Right." Howard hoped Vince was right.

Vince, who had been clutching his towel, roughly folded it and threw it back on the radiator. "So, did you sell anything then?"

"What?"

"To that customer? Did he buy anything?"

"Umm… no. I sent him out when you went upstairs."

"What?! Why?"

"I thought you were scared. I thought he was a bad man."

"Well he had bad taste, anyway…"

"So I pushed him out of the shop."

"You what?"

"I… pushed him… out of the shop."

"Is he alright? We can't have another assault charge on your records! You're in enough trouble as it is!"

"He's fine, he's fine. I saw him stumble to the bus stop."

"A fancy man like that? I would've thought he'd drive some kind of fancy car. A Skoda or something."

"Since when were Skoda's fancy?"

"Well I dunno, do I? I'm not Kerry Jarkson am I?"

"Jeremy Clarkson - and thank God."

"You're a fool Howard." Vince chastised, looking Howard in the face, "that could've been your first sale in twenty-seven years!"

"We haven't worked here that long, Vince. I think you mean months."

"Still, twenty-seven months is a long time."

"Yes, I know that, thank you, Vince," Howard muttered, bitterly.

"You're such an idiot sometimes, Howard," Vince said fondly. He smiled and patted Howard's shoulder as he walked back down to the shop. "Get us a tea, yeah?"


	3. Mood Swings

Author Notes: Thankyou once again sisidraig and hermitknut for beta-ing. Endless hugs and kisses to knightaimee for the support.

* * *

Chapter 3

Mood Swings

Howard could always tell what kind of mood Vince was in; his facial expression would give it away. His friend was never one to hide his frequently changing emotions, whereas Howard seemed to hold a constant poker face. On the other hand, it could just be that Howards mood didn't flick from one extreme to another quite like Vince's. Or maybe Vince's poker face was better, but most days he didn't have the energy to keep up the front? Though Howard found it hard to believe that last thought – there was no way that all that happiness Vince appeared to feel was fake. You can't force a twinkle in your eye when you're depressed. Not unless the twinkle is from tears of course. Nevertheless, the more Howard thought about it, the more obvious it seemed. For as long as he had known Vince, the younger man had always worn his emotions on his sleeve – crying when sad, laughing when happy. But now Howard found it much harder to judge his friend's mood. Some days Vince would appear fine, grinning away like a Cheshire cat, but one slip of the tongue on Howard's behalf would let forth a cacophony of abuse followed by the slamming of a door.

He sometimes thinks he hears sobbing, afterwards.

Vince's mood swings unhinged Howard. He thought he could rely on Vince; rely on him to be unreliable. He supposed, the more he dwelled on the idea of Vince being unchanging, the more confused he became. Of course Vince was changing, he had always been changing. He was always fleeting about on the edge of fashion, swapping belts for hats, or ponchos for capes. Howard thought he should be used to it by now. In reality, he knew that through all this change Vince would still remain The Sunshine Kid. Now he was The 'Can't Make Up My Mind' Kid, and to be honest, that just didn't have the same ring to it.

* * *

Howard was sitting comfortably, reading the Sunday paper, when he felt two pale arms languidly wrap themselves in a loose hug around his neck. Instantly he jumped out of his seat with a cry of 'don't touch me!' and spun around to face his flatmate. The Sunday paper fell to the floor around them.

The face he observed held a look of hurt, as if he had done something to personally upset the other. Howard felt that the new sense of guilt creeping over him was unjustified; it wasn't his fault that he was jumpy in the morning. He also thought he had made his 'no touching' rule very clear on previous occasions.

Vince's reply was quiet, child-like. "But I want a hug."

Howard studied Vince for a minute, ever unsure of himself. "Don't ever touch me," he repeated.

To Howard's horror, he noticed that tears were threatening to spill over Vince's bottom eye lids.

"But then how can I hug you?"

"You can't." The guilt monster grew inside him as he watched Vince sniff and dab at his eyes with the sleeve of his neon green dressing gown. He grabbed a tissue from the box conveniently left on the table and passed it to Vince. Vince tentatively reached out for it, as if. Howard spoke up.

"What's wrong, little man?"

Vince sniffed a bit more before replying.

"I thought you loved me, Howard."

Howard froze.

"What's this brought this on?"

"What?" Vince fixed his watery gaze upon Howard.

"Well," Howard felt himself sinking in treacle, "we don't usually discuss our feelings, do we, Vince? It usually ends with you laughing at me."

"'M sorry, Howard." He wiped his eyes again.

Howard began to wring his hands as his overemotional friend stood in front of him, half-sobbing into a wet tissue.

"Sorry, I'll –" a hiccup "– I'll just go then…" Vince turned to leave, but before Howard had time to realise what he was doing, he found himself striding determinedly towards his friend and wrapping his arms around his thin frame. Vince stopped suddenly. He slowly turned around to face the owner of the large Northern arms and, after a pause, threw his own lithe arms around him. He buried his head into Howard's chest, and Howard felt him humming quietly to himself. Awkwardly, Howard rubbed his hands up and down Vince's back, hoping to provide the reassurance that he was seeking, but not quite knowing if it would solve the overriding issue. Vince rubbed his face gently against Howard's sea-green knitted tank top giving him a gentle squeeze and leaving, his eyes downcast.

* * *

On Monday afternoon Howard was struck by a rather strange revelation: Vince was not as innocent as he sometimes seemed.

Of course Howard did not doubt that Vince had experimented with drugs and alcohol and other taboos, but some how he always managed to carry out these activities with an air of purity. His young sparkling eyes, sunshine smile, porcelain skin… nothing could taint them.

His stance often seemed unsteady; how could someone sin when they can't even stand on their own two feet? He walked with a bounce, as a child would. He would greet every sweet as if it were the first time he had ever seen them; with awe and amazement that they actually exist. Howard could vaguely remember the first time Vince had eaten a cream egg, wondering how they had managed to get the yellow bit in amongst the white. He recalled Vince's astonishment that it was possible to replicate something, such as an egg, to such a degree of accuracy that they would remember to put in the yolk. Still, education and experience had taught Howard all about how these seemingly magical things occur. He suspected one of the reasons he disliked science was exactly for that reason; it replaced magic with logic. On the other hand, perhaps it was a blessing to know that things can be explained? Howard didn't know if ignorance really was bliss.

When it came to understanding Vince, however, logic rarely made any difference. He was a type of magic that could never be understood, or explained, or even theorised. He just was.

Howard watched Vince as the younger man studied his own reflection in the mirror. Vince even made vanity seem like a virtue:_ 'It's for the good of Shoreditch!'_ The northerner thought that it was unfair that one single person could dabble with so many of the seven deadly sins and not come out with even a scratch on his record, portrayed by the sudden death of the spark in his eyes. Surely to sin and be punished is to make a mistake and learn? Howard thought it was a natural journey that most make on their way to adulthood, but Vince seemed to have no trace of this history. Reluctantly, the older man was forced to put this down to his friend's great acting skills, because when Vince was trying to seduce, there was a significant change in his performance.

The weather on that Monday afternoon was lazy; overcast with a light breeze. Howard was sat behind the till, reading the _Jazz on My Face_ magazine, and Vince was sat in the red dentist's chair near the shop window reading the new issue of _Dazed and Confused_. They both looked up simultaneously as the shop bell rang to declare the presence of a new customer (or, on rare occasions, a particularly strong gust of wind which had blown the door open; though it has already been said that there was only a mild wind on this particular afternoon, so they could safely presume that there really was a customer).

Even Howard couldn't say that the man was unattractive. He had chin length, slightly tousled, dusty-blond hair, bright blue eyes and exceptionally high cheek bones. He held himself with an air of confidence; a swagger in his stride, mouth pulled into a inviting smile.

Vince, not one to delay, jumped upon the opportunity to seduce immediately. He sprang from the chair and stood, poised.

"Hey, you alright there?" the electro-poof asked, strutting towards the young blond man, who in return eyed Vince warily. The shorter man (Vince) was now fluttering his eyelashes at the customer in a rather flirtatious fashion. It soon became apparent to Howard that he must have misinterpreted the man's first impression, for now he was acting tentative and nervous. Howard suspected that Vince's peculiar behaviour had something to do with his change of stance.

"Do you have any jazz stationery?" the customer asked, his blue orbs flickering between the black haired man standing before him and the more mature and reserved maverick to the side. Even though jazz was technically Howard's forte, he had been momentarily stunned by Vince's rapidly changing behaviour which left the raven haired man to continue the sale.

"Eww, Jazz?" Vince recoiled in horror before his mouth tugged into a callous smirk. "I'm sure I could find you something much more fun to play with."

"I don't want to play," the blond one said charily, "I want to organise."

"You could organise me?" Vince offered, batting his eyelashes innocently while jutting his right hip out provocatively. The customer started to back away slowly and Howard thought that this would be a good time to intervene before the blond man could leg it out the door.

"Jazz stationary, you say?" Howard interrupted, "I do believe we have some new desk organisers in stock." Howard directed the customer over towards stationery village, away from the electro-poof.

Cautiously, the blond man edged his way around Vince, who was still trying to entice him with his seductive stance and widened eyes.

Howard tried to distract the customer from his co-worker's peculiar behaviour by pointing out the desk tidy's incredible knack for holding felt tips.

Vince, upon realising he was now being ignored, flounced back to the red chair and furiously opened _Dazed and Confused_ once more.

The customer, feeling much more at home since being shown the item of stationery's unique talent for holding fresh reeds, was more than happy to purchase the item. Giving his thanks to the jazz maverick he left the shop shortly after, eager to embark on his next organising adventure.

And with that, Howard made his first sale in twenty-seven months.


	4. Compulsive Liar

**Author notes:** This chapter is short but it didn't want to go any further.

Thankyou for all the feedback! I'm afraid the mystery is going to have to thicken before anything actually gets solved. Are you ready for the long haul? (hopefully not too long- my attention span is limited, naturally). I'm trying to keep them in the Boosh world but at the same time shove in some real disorders… some aspects of that are surprisingly easy considering that the characters are _supposed_ to be 2D. Let us think back to the psychologist's report on the Mighty Book of Boosh when they appeared on Jonathan Ross…

* * *

Chapter 4

Compulsive Liar.

_'You do not even think of your own past as real; you dress it up, you guild it or blacken it, censor it, tinker with it ... fictionalise it, in a word, and put it on a shelf - your book, your romanced autobiography. We are all in flight from reality. That is the basic definition of Homo sapiens.'- Freud on romanticism. _

_*_

Despite all the endless stories, Howard still wasn't sure he could call Vince a compulsive liar. No; the younger man's eyes held too much honesty (or _something_) for anything he said to be as clear cut as true or false.

*

"_Did I told you about that time Sianopholsee the Panther tried to get me to go for a romantic firefly-lit meal by the river, Howard?" Vince would say._

_*_

His younger friend would often feel the need to discuss the way people admire and fancy his wiry physique. Howard lets him ramble on about the girls and guys and (apparently) big cats that tried to ask him out on a date. Vince claims that he doesn't care about the numerous proposals; he claims they aren't important to him. Unfortunately, through years of experience Howard has learnt that Vince does in fact care about the attention; the older man has comforted his friend on too many occasions after an unsuccessful night on the 'unimportant' pull to believe him.

*

"_Did I ever tell you about my first introduction to the fashion world?" Vince would ask Howard. "It's true I was born with the gift for fashion, but a talent needs training and practice all the same. Guanus the Parrot woke me up one morning, dressed in a genius two-part white suit with leather gloves which went over his feet. He told me about Cheekbone and Dazed & Confused, and showed me that I didn't need to exist in just loincloths and plant-based materials; though I really did like that palm tree cape I made for myself in that last summer…"_

_*_

It remained a mystery to Howard how a man could be so dependant on keeping up to date with fashion. Still, there was nothing wrong with variations of interests within a population, right? There are so many different types of people in the world that surely there is space for one that is completely obsessed with what's 'hot' and what's 'not'?

*

"_Once I woke up and I was covered in spiders and centipedes and millipedes and caterpillars. They crawled all over me," Vince would visibly shudder. "Ooh, that was horrible."_

_*_

More often than not a story about Vince's childhood would involve some form of violence or, at the very least, extreme discomfort; if not stated clearly then implied heavily within the words and subject matter. Sometimes Howard felt that the younger man was dodging the real issue and instead delivering a small, inconsequential message about something like 'the _proper_ way to condition your hair'.

Although, on other occasions Vince would start to babble and end up revealing as much as he could about what he had been trying to hide.

*

"_They really did try to steal my face, Howard. Sometimes they would nearly succeed and my face would be blue and black from the beatings of their wooden tools. I'd have blood running from my nose and my mouth from where I'd bitten my cheeks and tongue. They were well vicious, Howard." Vince would reveal._

_*_

Howard suspects that sometimes Vince might just get confused and believe a story to be real; he always _did _have an over-active imagination.

*

"_What about your real parents, Vince?" Howard would ask on rare occasions._

"_Brian Ferry was genius- we used to fly kites made out of vine leaves and old bamboo shoots." Vince would say._

"_Your real parents, Vince." Howard would repeat._

"_He is my real parent." Vince would insist._

"_What about your Mother?"_

_And then Vince would find an excuse to change the topic._

_*_

It must be easy to take a fond childhood tale and imprint it into your memory as reality rather than fantasy. Tarzan wallpaper created the forest scenery. A family joke about Terry Wogan and Brian Ferry leading to a new father figure.

But why run from the truth?

*

"_Do you remember the first time we met?" Howard would reminisce._

"_Under that Oak tree, by the ice-cream van." Vince would say confidently. This would cause Howard to frown in confusion._

"_No, Vince. It was in the park by the hospital." The older man would explain._

"_What?"_

"_You were with your Father." Howard would recall._

"_Brian Ferry?"_

"_Your real Father." Howard would correct._

"_Brian Ferry." Vince would maintain._

"_Your Father put you on the see-saw to cheer you up, because you were sad. He asked me if I would join you to balance out the weight."_

"_Is that so?" Vince would question, doubtingly. "Even if that was the case, Howard, I don't think our weights would have matched that well." He would laugh, offhandedly to show that he was joking._

"_How dare you, sir!" Howard would retort, only to discover that Vince was trying to change the topic. "We were less than eight years of age- we probably weighed the same!"_

"_We didn't know each other until we were ten, Howard."_

"_We were definitely less than eight, Vince. I remember trying to invite you to my birthday party that year but not being able to track you down."_

"_I don't think so, Howard."_

"_I know so, little man."_

"_I've never been to a park by a hospital anyway, I'm certain. Why would I have been there? I'm sure you're wrong." Vince would persist._

"_Your Mother wasn't well, Vince."_

_And then Vince would find an excuse to leave the room._

_*_

Was it lying if you believed it yourself?


	5. Crescendo

Author notes: This chapter didn't want to be written :( even in the final edit it was still evading me... on the plus side I've written two chapters for a separate plot bunny (keep a watch out (: ) with my girlfriend. I'm expecting to have it finished for the Christmas holidays! I am sorry for the late update- it's my first week after my family's move to Barcelona and I've had to go shopping... I hope you can excuse me. I have bright green harem trousers now!

Thanks to my multitude of betas- I know it must be painful to edit and I do dearly appreciate your efforts to make it readable.  
Also, I need advice. I just saw a really neat little olive green jacket- it bears a remarkable resemblance toMr Fielding's bright green one... I don't quite know the extent of the hole it will make in my pre-uni pocket but... what does everybody think? Should I invest? I already have a fabulous red leather jacket from Italy...Any advice would be welcome!

Concrit is welcome, compliments are divine :) thank you x

* * *

Chapter 5

Vince's confidence seemed to be failing at a dramatic rate. Seeing his previously over-dramatic and vain friend fall so far sent Howard into a blind panic. If Vince was losing himself, what hope was there for anyone else? Vince was the happiest person he knew! Now Howard could only watch as the shell of the former Sunshine Kid moped around the house, jumping whenever the phone rang and running to his room when the doorbell sounded.

Like a recurring theme in a symphony their arguments became ever more frequent and repetitive. Howard was afraid of what was becoming of their relationship. He felt as if the responsibility of Vince's health had fallen into his own, un-expecting arms and he half wished that the younger man would take the initiative to seek help elsewhere.

Howard smiled with a sense of relief when he saw that Vince was chatting on his mobile to one of his Camden friends. He appreciated that on any other occasion he it would only make him angry – at the fact that these so-called friends seemed to be taking the younger man upon the path of self destruction – but today he hoped that a sense of normalcy in Vince's life would probably help get him back onto the road of recovery (from what ever it was that was wrong). At least getting Vince out of the house would stop him from spending the evening on the sofa watching trash on television – which, in Howard's eyes, could not be healthy for anyone.

"Alright, see you then. Bye Leroy." Vince placed the phone back in its charger and flopped back down upon the sofa.

"Going out tonight then?" Howard asked casually, half hopeful. Perhaps this evening Vince would put an end to a growing number of consecutive nights he had been staying in.

"Nah, I'm staying in."

"But you just told Leroy you would meet him at that new bar that just opened down the road," Howard pointed out with an air of confusion.

"'Course I did," replied Vince, "because if I hadn't then half of Camden would be ringing me up asking if I can make an appearance." He picked up his newest issue of Cheekbone from the coffee table. "It's easier to promise myself to one club and just let one group down," he continued. Howard watched the younger man bring his right thumb nail to his mouth and begin to chew upon it.

"Come on, little man," the small-eyed man said worriedly, "what's this all about?"

"What do you mean?" Vince frowned, still nipping at his thumb, staring at the centrefold of his magazine.

"This isn't like you," explained Howard. "Usually your Friday night isn't complete unless you've hopped in and out of five different clubs."

Vince shrugged, his aqua blue eyes uncharacteristically shifty.

"What's wrong?" the taller man pressed.

"Nothing," Vince persisted, his thumb popping out of his mouth and hand ruffling awkwardly through his hair.

"Don't lie, Vince," warned Howard.

"I'm not!" he protested.

"There's clearly something you're not telling me," said the older man.

Suddenly Vince snapped. "Maybe there is- what's 'wrong' with that?" he argued, eyes flashing dangerously. "Since when were _you_ my keeper?" Vince threw his unread magazine back onto the table.

"I'm just trying to help, Vince," Howard panicked, aware that he had once again pushed too far too fast.

"Yeah? Well you're not," the younger man shouted, hauling himself from the sofa, "Just butt out of it, small eyes; I've had enough of your mothering." And with that Vince stormed to his room.

* * *

Time passed, as it has the habit of doing. Arguments prevailed between the two old friends. Vince was spending unhealthy amounts of time in his room. From what Howard could gather he was often doing nothing more than staring up from his bed at the cardboard cut-out animals which dangled around his lampshade, creating giant, yet life-sized, shadows upon his walls.

Still, Howard knew that Vince was a grown man. If Vince had a problem then he should be able to solve it on his own. Adults didn't need to be treated like children, no sir. Howard was not going to get any further involved. He had had quite enough quarrels for one week, thank you very much. He was going to stay resolute, and keep his own, unbroken nose out of it.

* * *

"I'm sure you wouldn't be so tired if you got up and actually did something productive." Howard was suddenly standing at the foot of his friend's bed, the occupant of which was lying on his front, face buried deep in a pillow with a magazine hanging loosely in his hand which dangled over the edge of the bed.

"But there's nothing to do," a voice moaned out from beneath a fan of raven hair.

"There's always stock-taking, Vince," the older man pointed out.

"Oh, get lost small-eyes," Vince's head snapped up and tilted to one side so he could look at his friend, "you've already done that twice this week already _and_ no-one's been in to buy anything."

"It's essential to keep an eye on the merchandise levels, little man."

"Not _that _'essential'- that's just your OCD coming through, Howard," scoffed Vince, eyes scorning him through his fringe as he threw his magazine away from the bed. It landed open; a mess. Howard fought the sudden urge to make it neat.

"OCD? How dare you!" Indignation stabbed at Howard's breast like a knife.

"Paranoia?" offered Vince.

"If anyone's got a mental disorder it's you, Vince," his friend countered.

"Excuse me?" Vince fumed, sitting up on the bed, ignoring the violent surge of blood rushing to his head.

"You haven't left the flat in weeks," Howard stated.

"Yeah, well there's not been much on."

"Five new electro clubs have opened."

"I'm not that interested in it anymore," the younger man grumbled.

"Don't lie, Vince," berated Howard. He wasn't angry at Vince – he _couldn't _be angry at Vince – but he wished his friend didn't feel the need to lie to him.

"I'm not! I'm not bothered about the club scene, that's all," Vince repeated.

"Why don't you tell me what's bothering you, little man? Is someone hurting you?" asked the older man.

"What? Don't be ridiculous, Howard," Vince laughed at him in an obvious attempt at shifting the focus.

"Do you owe someone money?" Howard speculated.

"Well if I did then it wouldn't be a problem because I'd just nick it from your stationery savings," quipped Vince from the bed, smirk characteristically replacing a smile. Howard stared at him.

"How do you know about that?" he demanded.

"Found them when I saw that x-rated copy of Jazz On My Face magazine," divulged the thin man.

"You shouldn't go through other people's things, Vince – it's invading their privacy."

"Yeah, yeah – and you're invading my room. Get out."

"Let me help you!" Howard pleaded, at a loss.

"Piss off, Howard." Vince was growing angry. Howard could see his body tensing, as if ready to explode.

But he knew he couldn't just leave it here.

"What are you hiding from?"

Abruptly, Vince jumped up from his place on his bed and shoved Howard the last few paces out of the door.

"Nothing, you great jazzy freak! Now, get the hell _out!_" And then he slammed the door.

Once again, Howard felt as if they were stuck in a vicious cycle. The more he tried to talk to Vince – to _comfort_ him – the more secretive Vince became. In the past few weeks, frustration seemed to be rising between them faster than ever, and Howard didn't like it. At the rate things were going he didn't think it would be long until something snapped.


	6. Sweet Enough

Author notes: The 'shameless self promotion/references to own work' is the Henry Hoover reference. For more of the history between Henry Hoover and Howard Moon please visit my LJ and take a peek at Spring Cleaning :)

* * *

Chapter 6

Howard woke at the sound of a loud thump which bared an uncanny resemblance to something – or rather, someone – falling to the floor. He lay amongst his devilish nutmeg duvet (and matching pillows) with his heart pounding. He strained his ears to hear for any repercussions to the noise, fearing that a burglar or a rat or a fox had found their way into the flat. Perhaps if he lay still long enough they would go away without hurting him? Surely a murderer wouldn't want to kill him? Surely he wasn't of any overwhelming significance? _Take the small man! Don't kill me! I've got so much to give…_

Eventually Howard let himself relax, and he rolled over to go back to sleep – after all, he needed to be up early to open the shop seeing as Vince was apparently incapacitated at present.

Suddenly, he heard a whine break out from another room in the flat. It shortly became apparent to Howard that someone (Vince?) might be hurt. Now it seemed that concern had become preponderant to the cowardice that usually haunted his person. He grabbed his angry muffin towel dressing gown and padded out cautiously into the hall.

There was another low groan from Vince's room, and the sound of scuffling.

_Vince fitting in the blood-red dentist's chair._

Howard slowly reached for the door handle leading to his room. As soon as his hand made contact with the brass a light flickered on from inside the room.

And then, without warning, the cowardice was back in full force. He jumped back in fright, away from the door. Assuming his good friend must be well, he trampled back to his room as quietly as possible in the silence of the flat.

* * *

The next morning Howard woke with a start. He jumped up into a sitting position, brown hair terrifically askew as is common for many in the early hours of the day. Wondering what had aroused him from his sleep, he strained his ears to listen out for any sounds which seemed out of place. A scraping noise could be heard loudly over the warm hum of the water boiler, and Howard instantly realised he was not the first one to awake on this particular morn; someone was in the kitchen, apparently sliding a chair along the hard floor. The small eyed man threw off his bed sheets, dressed himself once more in his angry muffin towel dressing gown, and made his way towards the noise, hoping for some early morning conversation. He hoped that he may even be able to clarify what had awoken him in the night.

Blinking blearily as he stepped into the bright kitchen, he coughed lightly to alert the room's other occupant to his presence. When his eyes finally began to focus properly he saw that his raven haired friend was smiling at him through his curtain-like fringe. His electric blue silk dressing gown was draped over his thin frame and his feet were being kept warm by a pair of baby pink slippers adorned with silver sequins. None of this was out of place when compared to any other normal first greeting of the day with Vince, what shocked Howard on this particular occasion was how abundantly red his friend's nose appeared to be. For a moment he pondered on the idea that he might have been experimenting with clown make-up again, but discarded that thought when he finally comprehended the significance of the previously unnoticed swelling of the aforementioned facial feature.

"What happened?" Howard croaked, posing his first question of the day with shocked concern. Vince frowned at him and hummed in fake confusion to what he was being asked. This annoyed Howard who strongly suspected that by answering Vince would have been able to kill two birds with one stone – the second being the loud thump in the night.

"Your nose, Vince," Howard said slowly and clearly, "what happened to your nose?"

"Oh," the smaller man turns away from him, grabbing his cup of tea from the table. Howard remembered buying the mug for him when they decided to go on a spur of the moment trip to Brighton; it was white with pink lettering reading 'Sweet Enough?'. Vince had loved it from the second he saw it, and Howard had thought it to be rather fitting with the theme of the day (but that is another story for another time). "It's nothing to worry about, Howard," the electro poof mumbled into his hot drink. He took a sip, then: "It's not like it's the first time or anything."

Howard knew he was referring to the damage obtained by his nose rather than anything as sinister as the method to how it was actually obtained.

"That's not the point, little man."

"Do you want some tea?" Vince proposed, immediately reaching for Howard's mug – the colour of 'Thames water' according to the younger man – before he could respond.

"You can talk to me, Vince." Howard sat down at the table, looking at Vince sadly.

"Two sugars?"

"None. That's a pointless question, you knew that," the older man stated with a hint of annoyance. He knew that Vince was deliberately trying to avoid verbal interrogation. The younger man continued to dance around the kitchen, smile never waning as he gracefully opened the fridge to fetch the milk and then smoothly poured the boiling water over the tea bag, letting it stew until it was the exact strength he knew Howard liked.

Once finished, Vince placed the cup in front of Howard, on a small canvas mat, effectively keeping his face hidden behind his hair.

"I heard a bump in the night, Vince," Howard tentatively offered as an opening statement, unsure of how to approach the subject knowing that his friend would probably be feeling embarrassed if his suspicions were correct.

"Your new Global Explorer is here," the younger man indicated towards the rather plain, green magazine on the table, seemingly ignoring Howard.

Distracted, the taller man reached for the magazine and simultaneously glanced down at the pile of previous issues which had come to rest on the floor next to his chair; though he had no memory of how they had got there. A fleeting thought made him feel a pang of frustration that Vince could be so evasive as to try and pull Howard away from the task at hand.

"Did you put these here, little man?"

Once again the younger man neglected to answer the question posed to him and proceeded to carelessly throw bread in the toaster and tug the fridge door open once more.

"Howard, where's the jam?" the smaller man's voice sounded slightly muffled, probably, Howard suspected, as a result of his injury.

"Where do you think?" the maverick retorted with growing annoyance at his friend's pretend ignorance. Vince wasn't as simple as he made himself out to be (or even as simple as Howard thought he was), but he knew he could play the perception of his character to his own advantage.

"Oh, I know exactly where it is, I just thought I'd quiz you," Vince said, pouting sarcastically.

"Top left like usual," Howard said, humouring him. "Don't touch the green jar; it's Naboo's."

"As if," Vince scoffed, grabbing the strawberry jam but steering clear of the glowing object. He knew of the consequences when it came to messing with Yakult. Total hair-mare. It took days to get the yoghurt from his shining locks.

Having lifted it to the table, Howard was now obsessively filing his collection of the Global Explorer, adding in the new issue after a brief flick through its pages. He didn't ponder on how effective Vince had actually been in succeeding in his plan to keep him off topic. As he picked up each magazine Howard laughed fondly at the memories of reading about the Amazon wanderer who braved Piranha-infested waters to reach the hidden cave of Gnocchi. The incredible twist in events had led the explorer to what was probably the only genuine gourmet Italian restaurant in the whole of Brazil.

CRASH!

Howard started at the sound of glass breaking behind him. Issues 498 and 316 fell on the floor, but in his surprise Howard failed to notice.

"Vince!" Howard jumped from his chair.

"Sorry! Sorry! I dunno what happened," Vince breathed out, glancing down at the shattered glass around his slipper covered feet. "It just slipped out of my hand."

"Don't move." Howard instructed. He grabbed the subtle beige dustpan and brush from under the sink and began to clear up the loose shards around Vince's feet.

"Get off!" Vince giggled lightly as the bristles scraped around his bare ankles. He took a step back and hopped onto a stool, feet clear of the glass.

"You better make sure there are no shards have gone into your slippers. You don't want them on the soles of your feet," Howard warned.

"How dare you, my feet's souls are perfectly clean; not a point on their licences. Definitely no glass shards anywhere near 'em."

"Suit yourself…" Howard grabbed some kitchen roll to clear up the jammy mess on the floor.

"You're such a good wife-y." Vince indicated towards the Henry Hoover and mop resting in the corner of the room. The toast popped up and Vince quickly reached for the honey in the cupboard behind him and skipped out of the room.

Howard blinked slowly at the space that his friend had just vacated. Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw the Henry Hoover move closer to the mop, as if for protection from Howard's jazzy hands.

Not wanting to upset any more household objects today, he kept his head low and continued to clean the floor, mind buzzing with thoughts about Vince.


	7. The Shining Star

Author notes: Vince just didn't want to let me leave him alone, hence the length of this chapter in comparison to the quieter, more reserved, chapters from Howard's point of view.

Things are starting to pick up now.

Once again, thank you to all my betas and everyone who reviews :)

* * *

7. The Shining Star

Vince had gone to bed earlier than usual. He had been feeling exhausted all day, though not really having any reason to. He knew that there was some truth in Howard's words when his friend had said he would feel better if he actually did something productive. Unfortunately, Vince had lost all faith in his ability to actually complete anything of importance. This had led to a sort of crumpling in on himself.

Where it was obvious to everyone that his confidence had taken a significant blow, few knew the reason for his new, uncharacteristically reclusive habits.

Blame could be placed on the peculiar illness he'd been suffering from for the last few weeks. In fact, time seemed to be playing tricks on his mind; for all he knew this could have been going on for months.

Self assurance was something that Old Vince was never short of, but the peculiar things that had started happening to him were draining him of all his courage. It was taking a nose-dive.

Rather fittingly, he awoke in the night feeling like he had just been bludgeoned smack bang in the face; his nose having received the full shock of it.

He had fallen out of bed and was now sprawled on his stomach upon the carpeted, yet hard, ground. Vince had no recollection as to how he had got there – the simple answer to this would have been that he had fallen out of bed while asleep, which he assumed must be true, but at the same time he was a fair enough distance away from his bed to warrant some suspicions that he had shuffled or walked away from it.

From the jelly-like feeling in his legs he doubted he had been doing much walking.

Currently, the only visible sign of agony from his nose dripped out in all its ruby glory, taking obscene pride in staining the pale carpet. An auditory response to the injury was soon emitted from the back of his throat as he finally grasped an idea of the severity of the whole situation. A long, slow pained whine accompanied with a sob of tears.

This was hopeless. Even in his sleep, separate from conscious thoughts, he was haunted by the seemingly illogical illness that he must, surely, be imagining? It wasn't like when he came out in a rash after being exposed to the ghastly 'music' genre of jazz. It wasn't like when he had been out drinking the night before and ended up with a smashing hangover the next day. Nor did it bear any resemblance to Howard's sore red arms after a session of self inflicted Chinese burns…

Vince could not find a cause or reason for what was happening to him, which in his opinion meant that it couldn't be real.

With a flash of self doubt, he recalled that living in denial was something he was used to.

Pushing himself into a sitting position weakly with trembling arms, he reached over to flick on the lamp on his bedside cabinet. He cringed back as the multitude of photons attacked his delicate retinas. His ears strained as he though he heard someone outside his door. The young man stilled and glanced in the direction of the sound. He was thankful to Jagger when all seemed silent in the flat apart from his own heavy breathing.

A sparkling silver tissue box which had fallen to the floor next to him assisted him when it came to tenderly mopping up his bloodied nose. A fully stocked pile of painkillers in his sock draw with some bottled water dampened the physical stomach churning aching in his face. A decent bottle of stain remover would clean up the carpet.

But Vince doubted anything would be able to repair his pride any time soon.

After an unsuccessful attempt at falling back to sleep soon after cleaning himself up from his tumble, Vince pulled out a blank canvas with some oil paints. He propped himself up on a wooden stool by his easel. The adrenaline rush from his rude awakening had provided him with a sufficient degree of insomnia for him to feel the need to occupy his mind with thoughts other than 'Oh why can't I just fucking sleep?', but he knew the exhaustion which so often followed a 'life threatening' event was going to catch up with him faster if he didn't sit to paint.

Paint threw itself over the previously spotless weave of the canvas. Vince vaguely witnessed the movement of the paintbrush as he, in his state sleepy state, considered what his subconscious muse had decided to paint for him. He seemed to become enmeshed in the intricate patterns and significant conglomeration of colours that the picture slowly acquired. In comparison to other artists, it was a frequent occurrence for Vince's paintings to appear particularly inane. However, on this occasion it soon became apparent that the focus of the picture was fast becoming something much more horrifying and close to home. After hours of obsessive painting Vince gaped in sheer terror at what he had created.

An image of the Beast lay before him.

Dropping his brush, staining the carpet for the second time that night, he pushed over the easel so as to get the painted demon away from his person as quickly as possible. He staggered backwards until his shins hit his bed where he collapsed backwards onto it, face scrunched up with tears spilling over his bruised cheeks.

Perhaps he would never be able to escape from_ his_ terrible clutches?

Vince wondered why some hidden part of him would think it to be so important that he should delineate a part of his own personal history that he had consciously tried to block. Memories should remain buried less they need to be called upon.

As soon as Vince deemed it to be a relatively normal time to be awake, he wrapped himself in his electric blue silk dressing gown and tucked his feet snugly into his favourite pair of slippers. He padded out to the kitchen in search of some food; naturally, waking up early tends to knock your body clock slightly off-kilter and so Vince's stomach had decided it was breakfast time at the early hour that was half past six.

Upon entering the kitchen he walked straight into a chair, pushing it and causing a horrible scraping sound to echo around the flat. He cringed at the loud sound, and made a shushing sound towards the inanimate object as though begging it to be quiet. Vince threw his hand at the light switch by the door. The room was suddenly drenched in fake brightness that clashed strangely with the natural light provided from the sunrise through the window.

Vince set about making himself his first cup of tea of the day. He was interrupted when heard a rough cough from by the door. He turned to give Howard a crooked grin. His nose was still throbbing painfully, but the electro poof hoped that by dazzling his friend with a smile he would be distracted enough not to comment on the appalling state of his nose.

"What happened?" a gruff voice asked with Howard's mouth. Today was not turning out to be Vince's luckiest day.

He frowned at Howard's question, playing dumb. This only caused his friend to put on his 'irritated' look: eyebrows sinking in an adorable way, an exasperated sudden intake of breath.

"Your nose, Vince," Howard reiterated to him, "what happened to your nose?"

"Oh," the younger man gasped, feigning new realisation. His stomach dropped and he felt a wave of nausea pass over him. He didn't want to lie to Howard; he couldn't lie to Howard. Not well, anyway…

Vince clutched his tea close to him, brain trying to shield him from focusing on the current matter by bombarding him with memories of Brighton shopping trips and happier times. Unfortunately, Howard was still watching him, expecting an answer. Somehow Vince figured it would be better to give a vague response rather than an outright lie like 'a red octopus sneaked into my room last night and said he'd keep on punching my nose (with all eight limbs in sequence) until I gave him my special hair care recipe'.

"It's nothing to worry about, Howard," the younger man took a quiet sip of his drink, being careful not to burn his lips in the process, "It's not like it's the first time or anything."

"That's not the point, little man." Howard looked unbearably sad, and it took all of Vince's willpower not to ambush him with a hug.  
"Do you want some tea?" Vince asked, trying to distract himself by grabbing Howard's Thames-water-coloured mug and making the drink before the other man even gave his approval.

"You can talk to me, Vince." Howard's indefatigable concern did nothing to make Vince's life easier as he tried to move the early morning conversation onto lighter matters.

"Two sugars?"

"None. That's a pointless question, you knew that." the older man sounded annoyed to Vince's tuned-in ears. He had known the answer to the question; he had known it for years.

The man in the electric blue silk dressing gown went about making his friend's tea. He ignored the older man's anent eyes that seemed to be following him around, hawk-like – a rather fitting description given the size of them.

Vince set the tea down in front of Howard.

"I heard a bump in the night, Vince," the maverick recalled. The younger man wondered if he would ever succeed in distracting Howard from this; his unwavering attention was unnerving.

"You new Global Explorer is here," chirped Vince. His friend reached for the magazine with ardent desire, concerns seemingly set aside for the time being. _Success… _Vince took the opportunity to throw a slice of bread in the toaster for his own, much awaited, breakfast. If Howard spoke to him during this time then he had no recollection of it, for he was becoming more and more distracted by the exacerbating dizziness that was threatening to overwhelm him. To Vince it soon became transparently clear that he was going to have to retreat to the safety of his room as soon as was reasonable so as not to rise suspicions from Howard.

"Howard, where's the jam?" he asked quietly. He knew the answer, but he felt that by keeping up appearances he might be able to make his departure prematurely.

"Where do you think?" snapped the maverick who was, for the most part, still engrossed in his latest edition of the Global Explorer.

"Oh, I know exactly where it is, I just thought I'd quiz you." Playful banter was a useful tool when maintaining pretences.

"Top left like usual." Vince loved it when Howard played along. "Don't touch the green jar; it's Naboo's."

"As if." Vince recalled a time that he had somehow managed to accidentally spill yoghurt on his prize-winning hair.

He soon went about his business, all the while the impending threat of the black abyss of unconsciousness creeping into his eye line.

Before Vince knew he was on the brink of another episode, a sonorous crash made him jump. A split second assessment made him realise that the jam jar, which had been in his hands only seconds before, was now shattered in a jammy mess upon the floor.

"Vince!" he distantly heard Howard scold.

"Sorry! Sorry! I dunno what happened, it just slipped out of my hand." Vince kept his wavering gaze fixed on his own feet, hoping that he would be able to overcome the giddiness.

"Don't move," Howard instructed. _Fat chance of that,_ Vince thought. He watched fondly as his older friend brushed away the glass shards from the ground around him.

"Get off!" Vince giggled lightly. Terrifyingly he felt himself falling backwards, without even a sigh of wind pushing him so. For the second time that day he was thankful to Jagger when he ended up sitting straight onto a stool which had been placed conveniently behind him. He prayed that Howard had not noticed the blunder.

"You better make sure that no glass shards have gone into your slippers. You don't want them on the soles of your feet," warned Howard, wisely.

"How dare you," Vince's voice sounded faint even to his own ears, "my feet's souls are perfectly clean; not a point on their licences. Definitely no shards of glass anywhere near 'em."

"Suit yourself…"the younger man watched with limpid fascination as Howard appeared to clean the mess as eagerly as a normal person might indulge in a chocolate sundae (not Vince, though. The beautiful abomination was a forbidden food on any diet he knew of- and he knew quite a few. Vince also knew that he wouldn't be able to eat something like that without physically being able to watch the pounds pile on.)

Vince felt another lurch in his stomach as his vision clouded over once more. He knew he had to get away. It wouldn't do to let Howard see – not again. He worried too much already.

He couldn't know.

"You're such a good wife-y," the younger man told Howard, pointing out the Henry Hoover and mop in the corner of the room before easing himself off from the stool. With perfect timing the toaster spat out his breakfast and Vince took some honey out of the cupboard behind his head. He fled from the room, stumbling slightly and praying Howard had not noticed.

Once in his own bedroom he shut the door and placed the toast and honey on the floor before shakily making his way towards his rainbow themed bed. Lying back he closed his eyes and breathed heavily, nervous about what he feared was about to happen.

Remembering the previous night's events, he suddenly sat up. He weakly pushed his bedside cabinet a short distance away from his bed, _just in case._

He lay back once more, tears pricking at the corner of his eyes as a sense of dread and helplessness overwhelmed him.

Vince Noir; Rock and Roll Star. He was meant to be perfect; the shining light that would never die so long as he had his believers. He couldn't be sick; it was against his whole philosophy. Stars can't just take holidays because they don't feel well enough to stay up to date with the trends. Stars can't just blink out of existence without being missed; stars can't escape the spotlight, no matter how hard they try and be discrete. He owed it to his masses to be there for them – to be the perfect fashion icon. He couldn't lose himself. He knew he shouldn't be thinking the things he was thinking. He knew he was solitarily fighting a losing battle. He couldn't comprehend why these things were happening to him. He couldn't continue the act while dealing with this larger, more dominating issue; how could his believers continue to believe if he couldn't believe in himself? How could he shine with the darkness closing in?

And so he stopped shining.


End file.
